Peter raised his head and thrust his grimy fists into his eyes.
"It's all right," he said bravely, "only...."
"Never mind, dear," I begged, "next time you'll come in first, won't he, Jimmy?"
"Sure!" agreed Jimmy heartily. And Peter, content with the confidence of his vanquisher, presently made off with him, saying earnestly, "But Jimmy, what makes you go so fast?"
Two days later, swinging lazily between my trees and reading The Lyric Hour to Wiggles, who listened attentively and with cocked, inquiring ears, I was horrified to see Mrs. Goodrich hurtle herself through the hedge, followed by Loretta, her black cook, both of them wringing their hands—Loretta, I swear, almost as white as her mistress—and both demanding,
"Have you seen Peter?"
"Why, no," I answered, "not today. Why?"
Sarah, her sixth sense telling her that something was wrong, appeared simultaneously at the foot of my hammock.
"Oh, Mavis," said Peter's pretty mother, "he's lost! He's been gone two hours, and we've been everywhere!"
Loretta, her apron over her kinky head, rocked to and fro.